Albus Potter & The Cursed Child
by BeyondStarlight
Summary: "This is not a prophesy – this is a curse." - Albus Potter may have an unruly mop of black hair and remarkable glasses, but he is decidedly against being compared to his father. Struggling with fame he doesn't want quickly becomes the least of his worries. If anything, Albus learns that – quite like his father – he has a knack for attracting trouble.
1. 1 It's Our Choices That Show

_THIS WORK CONTAINS SPOILERS.  
This fanfiction does not (strongly) deviate from the spoilers of the plot of the Cursed Child. Fanon theories that are not necessarily canon have been inserted._  
 _This work deviates from canon in terms of the time frame. The play is spread over several years, whereas in this fic it will all be happening within Albus' first year._  
 _Betaread by sirenalpha!_

 _ships (will change throughout the story): scorpius/albus, scorpius/rose, harry/ginny, ron/hermione, ..._

* * *

The first time the Potter family goes to King's Cross makes for a memorable moment. Harry's and Ginny's excitement is unwavering, as if it is their very own trip to Hogwarts, and not James'. They hardly even pay attention to the press. Adults and students are catching up with one another, causing a loud background hum of voices, laughter, and the occasional crying fit. Aside from that, many of them are highly aware of the man who is in their midst. Harry Potter. Saviour of the Wizarding World. Albus braces himself, trying hard to ignore the constant flashing lights, the aurors circling the area, and the overtly enthusiastic parents who try to exchange a word with Mr Vanquisher-Of-Evil.

But now, two years later, more precautions have been taken. They are used to the press, but somehow its absence is uncomfortably noticeable. It is eerily calm, in fact. People make a show out of pretending not to care for The Great War Hero, whilst stealing glances any time they can. Speaking of said hero, last year, he had been elated. Now, he is nervous – almost as much as Albus himself is. He talks with Hermione and Ron, as if he can't speak with them all year. Albus, however, will be gone until summer, but for all the attention he receives he might as well be staying home. He tries to catch his father's eye in vain, and then resorts to staring at Rose. Rose reminds him of his own mother, Ginny. She is visibly thrilled by the prospect of Hogwarts, and gesturing even more animatedly than usual as she speaks. Once again, to Albus' great annoyance, they recall the time Harry and Ron went to school by flying car. It was bearable the first time, and yet, after so many retellings, they still laugh. Only Albus doesn't laugh. No one pays much attention to him either way. The thought of an entire day on the train to Hogwarts saps his energy. Undoubtedly, people will merely think of him as a Potter. Son of. Brother of. He is already tired of it, and it has not even begun. But he is not too tired to miss the furtive glances his father keeps sending his way. Funny how that only happens after Albus decides it's not worth trying to catch his attention anymore.

Finally, they board the train. The entire experience, brief as it may be, is incredibly freeing. Through the windows, he stares at his parents and Lily. Everyone is waving until they fade into colourful blots, and eventually those fade away, too. Though he is only eleven, he suddenly feels both very independent and very alone. No more "Mom, teach me how to ride a broom" and no more "Dad, show me the silver stag again". No more "If I would let him, dad would do literally anything for you," and no more "One day you'll be just as strong as your mom." A part of him wants to run back – yet another part of him is relieved.

Since James boarded the train with his friends beforehand, Albus is left with Rose. The air between them is somewhat strained as they make their way through the compartments. At first, he doesn't look at anyone. It wouldn't surprise him if there was a neon sign above his head reading "Son Of The Strongest Wizard In The Galaxy". After a short while though, he realises hardly anyone pays him much attention, and a sense of relief washes through him. If anything, people are more interested in Rose, who wears a confident smile and greets everyone just a tad too cheerfully. This gives Albus, who is comfortable walking in her shadow, the perfect opportunity to watch the other students. Their faces are filled with expressions ranging wildly from anxiety to excitement.

"We should make a careful choice about where to sit." Rose shakes him out of his thoughts. He sends her a questioning glance. The ride to Hogwarts takes only a day, and if the company is more pleasant elsewhere, who will stop them from moving? There is something very familiar about the way Rose looks at him. He recognises it as the look Aunt Hermione sends Uncle Ron any time he doesn't get exactly what she's at. "Our parents met on this train."

Merlin, she sounds like her mother. Albus waits until she turns around again before shrugging and mouthing "Wonderful" to himself. Their parents could have met later too. He has learnt not to voice his opinion too loudly around her, however, as Rose is certainly more keen to debate any topic than he is. When they walk past a compartment that's empty except for one boy, Albus stops. The boy is resting his head on his hands, hunched over, and staring dully out of the window. They see each other in the reflection, but the other boy doesn't move at all. He looks about as ecstatic as Albus feels.

"You're not going in there, are you?" Rose says almost haughtily. Somehow, her words only make him more determined to do just that. Staring her straight in the eye, he slowly pushes the compartment door open. She inhales sharply, but doesn't say anything. Instead, she spins on her heel. For a moment, Albus watches her strut past several other doors, feeling just a little victorious.

The boy stares at him as he enters the carriage. Albus moves awkwardly to sit down across from him. As soon as he is seated, the blond boy straightens himself. Although there is no more enthusiasm to him than there was before, a certain determination is written across his face. As this happens, a memory flares up in the back of Albus' head, but remains there. He has definitely seen his face before.

"Malfoy." He extends his hand. "Scorpius Malfoy."

"Hi." Albus says, repeating the name over and over in his head. It definitely rings some bell. The newspaper? Or perhaps a name he overheard people talking about? He shakes his hand in return. "I'm Albus." Then, he adds a little more quietly, "Potter."

Scorpius only raises his eyebrows briefly in response, followed by a small nod of acknowledgement. "I'm the son of Draco Malfoy."

Albus gives him another stiff nod. He is relieved that there is no shower of questions about his dad, which he has lived through several times by now. Hearing Draco Malfoy's name brings forth images of a sharp and tight-lipped face splayed over the front page of the Daily Prophet. Though the less than flattering picture suggests they don't write about Mr Malfoy in the same euphemistic tone as they do about his own father, Albus has no clue what the articles were about. What he does know that his father avidly follows any Malfoy-related news. He wonders whether his father would discourage him from sitting with Scorpius, quite like Rose had.

It strikes Albus that the two of them have an odd thing in common: famous fathers. Admittedly, that's not something people typically bond over. Nonetheless, Scorpius must understand the hassle that comes with it. Introducing himself as "Son Of" is not just formal but overdone. If Albus is honest about it, all the pretentiousness is plainly ridiculous to him.

"Hello, son of Draco Malfoy," Albus says in an exaggeratedly posh manner. "I am the son of Harry Potter."

A shy smile spreads across Scorpius' face, and ripples of relief break through the tension within Albus. To his own surprise, he replies with the most genuine smile he has mustered up for a long while now.

"You might have heard already," Scorpius then says, and pauses to look out of the window again. The smile is gone as soon as it came, and instead he looks quite as if he had never changed his expression since Albus had seen his sullen reflection in the window. His lips are still parted, as if he is hesitating to say more. "Of the rumour that my real father could be Voldemort."

These rumours come in wild variations, including illegal use of time-turners and other questionable activities. Perhaps it is fortunate then, that Albus can hardly care less about celebrity gossip. He studies Scorpius' face as he thinks of a proper reply. The cold light that comes from the cloud-clad skies makes his skin ghostly white. He has a pointy chin and a sharp nose, but his eyes are soft and looking at something only he can see. Albus clears his throat, "If that's the case, then I'm glad you took after your mom."

Scorpius turns to him with a perplexed expression, and for a moment they just stare at one another. Just as Albus concludes he must have messed up royally with that comment, Scorpius laughs. It is a short and light sound, ringing through the air briefly. It catches Albus off guard. No one could ever accuse Scorpius of any evil if they heard him laugh, he thinks, but quickly discards the thought.

* * *

The headmistress is a strict looking witch, with dark grey hair and a voice that cuts through all hubbub. He wonders whether she too, expects him to be in Gryffindor. Like everyone else does. He wants to be. He really does. Because his parents were in Gryffindor. And James is in Gryffindor. Even his grandparents were in Gryffindor. All Potters and all Weasleys must have been in Gryffindor.

Albus misses hearing Rose's name, but he catches her walking up to the front and sitting down on a small stool. He counts the seconds it takes for the hat to decide. As soon as it touches her head – one, two, three, four-

"Gryffindor!"

No one is surprised. Albus could have sorted her. Four seconds is actually quite long, he thinks. When the names starting with an L come to an end and M begins, Albus finds himself paying more attention. He doesn't miss Scorpius' name, nor does he miss the muttering that flares up in the entire Great Hall. Ignoring the sea of whispers around him, Albus stares straight ahead of him, at Scorpius. It's a familiar sensation, even if they're not talking about him. The headmistress clears her throat loudly, and everyone falls silent. If she can do that with him too, Albus thinks, he might even come to like her.

The hat is silent when it's placed on Scorpius. His face is neutral in a very schooled way, jaw clenched and eyes fixed onto a point far beyond everyone. Albus isn't sure he is breathing. The headmistress is less composed, and automatically moves to remove the hat again before she realises it hasn't said anything yet. She swiftly straightens herself again, and, except for the intense stare, she waits as patiently as she did with everyone else.

Albus has not counted the seconds since the hat was put on Scorpius' head, but everyone notices it takes a bit longer than usual. Then, in a tone that indicates a carefully made decision, the hat muses, "Slytherin."

As soon as Scorpius disappears towards the Slytherin table, Albus' attention falters again. The other names are of little importance to him. He wonders whether he would mind being sorted into Slytherin so much. He has a friend there now, or at least he likes to think he does. Didn't his dad say it didn't matter? And his mom wouldn't mind, right? Could it be that bad?

"Albus Severus Potter."

The headmistress stresses each vowel, snapping him out of his thoughts. Everyone is staring at him. A little embarrassed, he makes his way to the sorting hat. As if it isn't bad enough with the additional embarrassment already, he also estimates the stool to be higher than it is, and lands on it awkwardly with a loud thud that draws some laughter. His face is positively burning. The old hat is placed on his head, and immediately magic begins trickling down his head very softly.

 _Ah, another Potter_ , an old voice purrs in his ear.

 _I am not just another Potter_ , he thinks, instantly irked.

To his surprise, the hat appears to hear his thoughts perfectly fine, as it replies to his comment. _Not just another Potter? You want to set yourself apart, then?_

 _I am just Albus_ , he thinks with a hint of exasperation. This always happens. Albus can hear the voices echoing in his head. "Oh, the jet black hair!", "And look at those bright green eyes!", "Quite like his father now, isn't he?". He clenches his teeth, staring hard at his hands in his lap. _I never asked for being The Son Of Harry Potter. I am not his miniature. I am just Albus,_ he repeats.

 _And Just Albus comes out of a family line of proud Gryffindors_ , the hat muses.

 _What if I am a Slytherin?_ The thought escapes him before he can suppress it.

 _You have the courage and desire for justice of a Gryffindor_ , the hat argues. _You would make a fine Gryffindor_.

 _Not Gryffindor,_ Albus suddenly thinks, and he falls into a repetitive loop of this thought. So what if people fear he might be in Slytherin? It's his life, isn't it? Scorpius is nice, and he went to Slytherin. Why shouldn't Albus be able to? _I'll show them_ , he decides, _I'll show them what good a Slytherin can do_.

 _So it is, and so it will be_ , the hat says. _Slytherin_.

And Albus wants to say more, but suddenly the hat is lifted from his head and people are applauding. He blinks, startled. It's done. Mixed expressions roll over the faces of the crowd. He catches James' face, mouth gaping and eyes wide. And he catches Scorpius' surprised face, flickering in and out of sight between the taller students. His heart beats loudly in his chest. It's real now. Albus Severus Potter is a Slytherin.

* * *

The memories of his own sorting ceremony are still vivid in Harry's mind. He remembers the hat's words more clearly than ever now. In between Slytherin and Gryffindor, Harry got his place in the house of the lion mostly because he _wanted_ it. Both of his parents, and as he recently found out, all of his grandparents, were Gryffindors. Is it stupid then to assume his children will be Gryffindors too? Now that Albus' ceremony is likely going on this very moment, he isn't so sure anymore. Albus is the only one who ever voiced fear of being sorted into Slytherin, although he supposes Lily has no reason to worry about that yet. Since the revelation of Albus' doubts happened only just before boarding onto the train, Harry told him what he felt obliged to say. That it doesn't matter. And it doesn't, in the end, right? It shouldn't. Only every time Harry imagines his son wearing the green and silver colours of Slytherin, it twists his guts. He can't tell what exactly bothers him, only that he hopes Albus understood his advice well. What you want is taken in consideration, too.

"You're going to wear a hole through the carpet if you keep going at it like that," Ginny comments dryly as she descends the stairs. She enters the living room, and they stop right in front of each other. He tries to smile reassuringly, but it mustn't be very convincing, because she frowns in response. Gently, she runs her hands through his hair, which he knows must be standing on end by now. "Got Albus on your mind?"

Her large brown eyes, framed by freckles and stray locks of hair, peer into his thoughts without any magic. He wishes she could decipher his exact doubts just like that, so he wouldn't have to say them out loud. "What if he really is in Slytherin?"

Ginny arches her eyebrows. "Then that's what you get for giving him Severus for a middle name."

Harry grins lightly. No, Ginny had not been fond of that idea. In all honesty, her second pregnancy was a bit unexpected. Harry had very carefully mentioned that he entertained the thought of paying homage to Severus Snape. Ginny brushed it off, believing strongly that he was just feeling guilty or clinging onto old sentiments. The idea didn't leave Harry, though. Snape had saved their lives, and never asked anything in return. Perhaps it was indeed a sentiment he shouldn't hold onto, but it wasn't like he could ever really let go of everything that had happened. A part of Harry did wish to give something in return, even if he had never been able to stand the man himself.

So he suggested it again, when they were seriously discussing names. Ginny was livid. " _Then why not call him Albus, while you're at it anyway?"_ This had not been a wise thing to say. Ginny had no qualms whatsoever with calling the children after Harry's parents or people who were close to him. She had frankly told him that James and Sirius were nice names, and if they were special to him, that only made them better. Albus Severus was an entirely different story, however. After several more quarrels, they made a bet. If it was a girl, she was going to be called Lily Luna, if it was a boy, he was going to be called Albus Severus. Firewhisky may have been involved that night, but they had been dying to end that ongoing ridiculous argument.

And now Harry has a son called Albus Severus, and he realises that perhaps he should have listened to Ginny. Throughout the years, Harry learnt an important truth: Mothers are always right. Although she is not even his own mother, Ginny has a knack for knowing better. Considering that, and what he knows of Hermione and Ron, Harry indeed believes that being a mother comes with a magic of its own.

 _Albus Severus_. Harry glances at the clock. It's almost midnight by now. The train isn't punctual, but there was never too little time for the sorting ceremony and a proper dinner. "They've been sorted by now."

Ginny rolls her eyes and plays lazily with his hair. "For all I care he should be a Hufflepuff."

Harry embraces her casually, arms around her waist. "Because no one expects it?"

"Exactly," she says whilst drawing him closer, "Imagine the entire Wizarding World somewhat awkwardly processing that the famous Albus Severus Potter is neither Gryffindor nor Slytherin. The Daily Prophet just wouldn't know what to do with itself."

"We're his parents though." Harry suddenly says. He lets go of her and straightens up. "Shouldn't we know him well enough to tell in which house he will be sorted?"

And there he goes again, pacing up and down the side of the living room. Ginny shakes her head slowly whilst watching him. "You're afraid he will be sorted in Slytherin."

Harry pauses for a moment and shrugs. "He hates all this attention." The clock slowly ticks off the seconds next to him. What table is Albus sitting at? Or are they already going up to their dormitories? Is Albus making friends in the warmly toned Gryffindor common room now, after climbing up a moving set of stairs that is always a little overwhelming for the first years? "I know all those unnecessarily curious people can be a true pain in the ass, but he deals with it worse than me."

"He will be fine."

Harry shakes his head, imagining Albus walking down the stairs into the cold dungeon, surrounded by Slytherin students. "If he sees his head plastered on the Daily Prophet with an entire article titled " _Harry Potter's Youngest Son Breaks Tradition: The Slytherin Potter_ " then he's going to go bananas."

Ginny only chuckles. It snaps Harry out of his enervating imagination. How can she not care? Doesn't it matter to her in which house Albus will be and how he will take it? Or is he really just overreacting? "Judging by Albus' reaction to the Daily Prophet, he might as well be allergic to it. Never seen someone avoid any contact with a piece of paper with such determination. He wouldn't read the newspaper for a galleon."

The matter is much less funny to Harry however. He runs his hands through his hair again and again, feeling the familiar prickle of agitated magic seeping through his fingertips. "That doesn't mean no one else does. He will be surrounded by students who do. Maybe some people will try to get into Hogwarts and interview him." Harry grimaces as the memories of Rita Skeeter resurface.

"So he might kill a journalist," Ginny shrugs, and rolls her eyes in response to his startled expression, "He will be fine."

"But what if-"

"I think," she interrupts him sternly then, "That you should let this matter rest for now. Seriously, you're probably more worried than he is."

Harry gives her an indignant look, but then his shoulders slump. Once again, he checks the time. "Of course I'm more worried than he is. He already knows by now."

"Harry," she groans, "Shut up."

Harry makes a vague sound of resignation in response. Just as he wants to begin pacing again, he catches Ginny's glare, and instead retreats to the couch. No invitation is needed, as Ginny sits down next to him and wraps her arms around him. He holds her close, and relishes the feeling of her soft kiss on his cheek. Maybe she is right. Maybe he will be fine.

"Wanna bet the press will know before we do?"

The sentence has barely left his mouth when a pillow collides with his face. Ginny smacks him repeatedly over the head whilst he laughs and tries to push her off.

Maybe it will be fine.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading! Please leave a review if you enjoyed this, it makes my day! Remarks, critique, ... are all welcome too!**


	2. 2 The Emotional Range of a Teaspoon

"It's fine," Albus grits out through his teeth. He throws the Daily Prophet onto his empty breakfast plate and stands up. He should have known it couldn't have taken them more than a few days to find out. Scorpius gets up to follow him almost automatically. In his agitation, Albus grabs Scorpius' arm and drags him out of the Great Hall behind him. Despite his small figure, Albus deftly pushes his way through the crowd. Students turn their heads to watch him go, and the murmur around them quiets for a moment before flaring up again.

When they are finally alone in one of the corridors on the way to the dungeons, Albus slows down and lets his arm go. Scorpius is still behind him, walking along easily now, since he is nearly a head taller than Albus.

"I'm sorry."

Albus turns around sharply. The urge to punch some sense into Scorpius rises, but instead he just jams his finger into Scorpius' chest. "You've got absolutely nothing to be sorry for."

Of all the people around him, the only one who treats him normally is apologising to him. Scorpius is visibly taken aback by the sudden anger, but then sighs and pushes Albus' hand away.

"It's just that I understand," he says quietly, and continues to walk towards the common room. The softness of his voice surprises Albus, who swallows his own words, and follows him. Scorpius _does_ understand, after all. Scorpius knows exactly how it feels when everyone is talking about you, and everyone looks at you the same way they would look at some weird animal in a zoo (although Scorpius might not know what a zoo is).

They arrive at the common room, which, when empty, closely resembles a museum. The walls are marble or wallpapered in a dark green, decorated with paintings and silver candles. Through the ceiling, the water of the lake casts shimmering reflections into the dark room. Shadows move rhythmically over the seats, creating a moving pattern of darkness and light. Over the sound of the water swaying against their common room, the hushed voices of the lingering students sound like echoes.

As the two of them pass the others, Albus can feel their eyes burning into his back. They sit down on a couch at the back of the common room, where the sound of waves flowing over the windows smothers out the whispers. Although he can't hear them, Albus can see the other students glancing back and forth between each other and the two of them.

Albus supposes that they, too, know of the article, and they are certainly talking about him. The Slytherin Potter. There is only so much one can do to keep any news from spreading outside of Hogwarts. Actually, a few days is almost a long time for the Wizarding World to catch wind of Albus being sorted into Slytherin. He wonders briefly whether his owl to his parents, bearing the news of his first day at Hogwarts, has been intercepted, because he hasn't received any reply yet. He did receive the newspaper though. Trust the Daily Prophet to write a lengthy article on how "ominous" this "sudden turn of events" may be, and how, supposedly, "Great Power" could be falling into "wrong hands". Because being the son of Harry Potter naturally meant Albus possessed greater powers than others. And, obviously, being Slytherin meant these powers were falling into the hands of pure evil.

Albus notices the forced silence in the room when Scorpius elbows him. "Are you alright?" Albus arches an eyebrow when Scorpius nods towards the other students. "You're freaking them out with that glare."

"I'm fine," Albus grunts.

The tiniest grin plays around Scorpius' lips. "Maybe you need to talk about how you feel?"

"Um." Albus frowns, but Scorpius continues grinning.

"Just breathe, sit back, and tell me how it makes you feel."

Albus frowns. "What did you have in your tea for breakfast?"

"It's nothing." Scorpius sighs and leans back into the couch. "That's what my therapist always says. It drives me out of my mind sometimes."

A therapist? Albus studies his friend. Why would he need that? "Your what?"

"I suppose you haven't read it in the newspaper, though it's been a while ago. My dad's been taking me to therapy sessions after my mom's death. I think it's more for him than for me. He says it works, though I don't really see how."

Albus imagines the two Malfoys, smiling thinly, sitting with some lady and having polite chat over tea. It's hard to imagine anything more open than that. He hasn't really seen Scorpius be more emotional than the time someone hid his toothbrush and he grumbled about it for an entire morning, and later that day, after he found it underneath one of the couches, he was very much disgusted.

Albus is pulled out of his thoughts when one of the girls laughs. It's a high pitched sound, which she tries to stifle with her hand. They're all looking at Albus and Scorpius now. Some of them are snickering, whilst others quickly resume their hushed chattering.

"I hate them," Albus mutters darkly. "If I had known it would be like this all the time, I would've never boarded the train."

"I know what you mean," Scorpius says, although he doesn't sound affected at all. "I didn't want to be in Slytherin either."

Albus is about to complain some more, but falls silent. What does he mean? He didn't want to be in Slytherin? And what does he mean, with either? He slowly turns to Scorpius, mouth still parted.

"What?"

Scorpius shrugs, studying his own hands. "I didn't want to be here too. I actually asked the hat to be in Gryffindor," he says, and then quickly adds, "Or anywhere else, really."

Albus is plainly gaping at Scorpius now, which only stops when Scorpius closes Albus' mouth with a soft tap. The touch startles Albus out of his initial shock, and he leans in a little closer to whisper, "You asked the Sorting Hat to be placed in Gryffindor?"

Scorpius nods. "But it said I belonged in Slytherin. We had a little row, but apparently the hat doesn't always care for what you want."

Albus remembers Scorpius' perfectly still expression, and the sharp, curved shadow the hat drew over his pale face. Scorpius asked the hat not to be in Slytherin. _Scorpius asked the hat not to be in Slytherin._

At once Albus is on his feet, startling not only Scorpius but everyone else in the common room. He grabs Scorpius by his arm and hisses, "Come with me."

Scorpius doesn't complain about being dragged out of the common room. In the few days that have passed, the general mode of transport has become one of them dragging the other away. If anything, Scorpius even looks mildly amused. They walk through the mostly empty corridors, turning into the most vacated ones at every split, until neither of them have a clue of where they are. At least, they are quite certain that they are alone, or as alone as one can be in Hogwarts.

Albus stops abruptly, causing Scorpius to almost walk into him. He spins on his heel, and has to crane up his neck to look into Scorpius' eyes because of how close they are. "You what?" He says as Scorpius takes a small step back. "You asked not to be in Slytherin?"

"Well, yes." Scorpius frowns. When Albus only keeps staring at him, he adds, "Everyone expected me to be a Slytherin."

Well, everyone expected Albus to be a Gryffindor, but he _did_ manage to convince the hat that Slytherin was a better idea. Before Albus can say any of that, Scorpius inhales sharply.

"It's not that I mind being in Slytherin," he explains, looking pointedly at the wall. "It's just this whole omen of darkness that comes with it. And with Malfoy for a last name, I'm bound to be either an evil wizard or just a plain asshole."

Albus frowns. "You aren't plain!"

 _Oh yes, Albus, well said. Wonderful. Such a supportive friend you are._

A small grin quirks up Scorpius' mouth. "Thanks."

"And you aren't an asshole, or evil," Albus adds, very smoothly.

Scorpius shrugs. "It doesn't matter anymore, does it? I'm in Slytherin now, and there's no changing it."

Albus watches him for a moment, surprised with how quiet and composed his friend is. He would never have thought Scorpius would second-guess his place in Slytherin. Then again, didn't everyone also believe Albus to be a Gryffindor? Albus softly grabs his arm again, though he isn't going to drag him anywhere this time.

"We'll show them," he says slowly, remembering what he told himself when he decided that he belonged in Slytherin. Scorpius turns his head in surprise. "We'll show them what good a Slytherin can do."

Scorpius, for once, doesn't glance away. His light blue eyes stare back intensely, as if trying to read his mind through his eyes. Albus is determined now, and grins confidently. They will prove them wrong. They will prove that Slytherin is the greatest house, not only in darkness but in light as well.

* * *

They wander down the hallways leisurely. Since it's their first Saturday in Hogwarts, they decide to explore the castle some more. With every turn they take, they step deeper into the heart of Hogwarts, descending staircases they aren't certain whether they're allowed to or not. But if there are neither warnings nor locks, what will stop them?

They reach a dark hallway down at the end of a small staircase. As they step into it, torches flicker into life with bluish flames. The darkness turns into an endless tunnel, much broader than they had expected it to be. The walls are built over ancient arches that are cracked in odd patterns. The shadows falling over the cracks form shapes that are almost recognisable, but gone too quickly. There are no windows or light, but for the torches. And yet, deep within the castle, they hear the wind howling through and feel it brushing past their faces. Over the whistle of the wind, the faintest sounds of whispers can be heard.

The hallway is flanked with paintings. Albus and Scorpius approach them, keeping close to each other, noticing the paintings noticing them. These are very different from most of the paintings in Hogwarts. They look less like brush strokes on canvas, more like skin gleaming in the bluish light. Their eyes follow them quietly.

Scorpius stops, and carefully approaches the painting of woman with black hair and a cold expression. She stares at Scorpius intensely, and Albus watches her in turn. She leans over as he does the same to read what's written underneath her. She looks as though any moment she can fall out of the painting.

She wears silky robes, which move like water as she leans back again. It's inky blue, littered with whitish dots that form a web of stars, planets and constellations. The scarf that loosely falls over her head contains the same, slowly moving patterns.

Scorpius gasps softly, and Albus jumps at the sound. "They're the founders."

Albus glances around him, feeling the eyes of an entire hallway lined with people- err, paintings, pinned onto them. "The founders?"

"This is Rowena Ravenclaw," Scorpius says. His voice rolls over the hallways, returning in oddly deformed echoes.

Albus stares back at the woman, who arches her eyebrows at him. Unlike the other paintings in the castle, these do not speak to them. There are only incoherent whispers, which crisscross into each other like mice behind the walls.

Across from Rowena is a stout man with a beard, and a very real glint in his eyes. His face betrays a hint of amusement as he watches them, and Albus imagines him to have a very deep and throaty laugh. For a moment Godric Gryffindor glances at the painting diagonally across from him. The other man glares back stoically. Albus almost doesn't recognise him, Salazar Slytherin. He has delicate features, and wrinkles that betray both a lot of grinning and a lot of frowning. His face is framed by locks of dark greyish hair that falls in a complex braid over his shoulder. There are silver ornaments in his hair and pinned on his clothes, and several necklaces, bracelets and rings shimmering vividly in the light. He has the air of a king.

Albus feels the weight of the man's stare boring into him. Scorpius however, barely pays him any attention. He has moved on to Helga Hufflepuff. She is small and round-faced, probably the youngest of them. There is a knowing look on her face. Albus has the feeling she knows far more about what's going on than they do, even though she is a painting. She too, doesn't say anything. Her eyes dart further into the hallway briefly, before returning to Albus, and a small smile plays on her lips.

"Let's go further."

Scorpius' voice sounds unpleasantly loud and sharp.

They pass the paintings of all the past headmasters and headmistresses, all chronologically ordered. Each of them has a label underneath them that states their full name and, rather than their year of birth and death, the years in which they served Hogwarts. They don't see a single painting talk, and yet the constant hum of hushed voices never ceases. The wind grows stronger as they walk further down, and Albus shivers involuntarily. Even though they are walking close to each other, hands brushing occasionally, neither of them say another word. They glance at each other sometimes, or slow down to take a good look at people they've already heard of, but they don't speak.

As they approach the end of the hallway, where a large door blocks the passage, the wind suddenly dies away. The soft murmur of voices sounds far away, and the silence is much more pressing.

Albus' eyes fall upon one of the longest name tags he has ever seen. Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. He looks up slowly, and an old wizard looks back. This Albus has snowy white hair that falls over his shoulders in waves, and robes in a rich, purple colour. His half-moon-shaped glasses sit at the very tip of his nose, behind which his small and kind eyes stare back. A warm smile broadens the old man's lips. Albus takes a step back.

This is the man he is named after. A wise old wizard who had skills and knowledge that frightened even the darkest wizards. Many of the paintings hint at infinite power, but this one is the very image of infinite peace. And it is much more powerful than all the other ones together.

It frightens him, because this man is more than Albus can ever hope to be.

He is roused out of his thoughts by Scorpius' touch. They look at each other for a moment, and he wonders what Scorpius thinks when he sees this other Albus next to him. The both of them remain quiet, however, and turn to the painting of Dumbledore instead. His smile widens just a bit more, and his eyes twinkle as though he wants to say something. If it weren't for Scorpius, Albus would probably stare at the man for much longer. He wants to ask him something, anything, but he is afraid the paintings won't speak back to him.

They move together to the last painting. He does not need to read the name tag to know whom he is looking at. After having passed many previous headmasters and headmistresses, often royally dressed and peculiarly looking paintings, the last one stands out because of its simplicity, but not necessarily in a good way. Severus Snape is an eye sore. His sallow skin has a corpse-like quality in the bluish light of the hallway, and his clothes are plain black robes. Upon their silent staring, his glare only intensifies. He curls his lip as though he smells something rotten. So this is the other man he was named after. He doesn't even look like he wants to be here. _Gee_ , Albus thinks, _thanks dad_.

* * *

The students of Hogwarts prove to be just as keen on spreading gossip as the rest of the Wizarding World, and neither Scorpius nor Albus escape their judgement. Focusing on their history assignment becomes a great deal more difficult when all around them students are talking about them.

"They say his father is actually Voldemort."

That one is quite popular, and it comes with undertones that go all the way from mocking to frightful. As if Voldemort himself is sitting right next to Albus, doodling asphodel flowers next to his text on Draught of the Living Dead.

"He does look quite pale and cold."

"So what? I haven't seen a Malfoy that isn't pale and cold; it's pretty much their trademark."

Although their voices are hushed, they are nowhere near quiet enough not to be audible. Scorpius, however, acts perfectly unaware of them. That only makes it worse for Albus, who can barely resist the urge to stomp over to them and tell them just what he thinks. How can Scorpius ignore them? He can't possibly be okay with all the bollocks they're spouting; so why doesn't he do anything?

"I tried talking to him once and he hissed at me."

"He's only talking to that weird Potter kid."

"Of course he is. He can get something out of Potter junior – probably a lot of useful information. What does he care about us, mere mortals?"

Albus' quill snaps in two, and he curses under his breath as the ink drips down his fingers onto his parchment.

Scorpius glances aside. "At least you hadn't written anything on that yet."

Albus flinches at Scorpius' cool words. Didn't he hear what they said? Doesn't he understand what they're saying about them? That they're only hanging out with each other for the sake of personal benefit? But Scorpius wouldn't do it just for that, would he?

"How can you stand them?" Albus grits through his teeth. Scorpius only shrugs.

Someone scoffs. "Watch out, we've angered the Potter kid."

Albus turns around sharply, looking straight at the guy who just spoke. "Oh you damn well have!"

A few students grow quiet, and everyone is staring at them now. One of the girls snickers. "Careful, Craig, he's gonna tell his daddy."

Albus takes a few big steps towards him, and Craig eagerly gets up as well. Craig, being an older student and Quidditch Beater, is a good two heads taller than Albus. This doesn't matter in the least to Albus, however, and he is about to deliver a good punch when two hands grab him from behind.

Craig laughs. "Woah now, little one, you weren't honestly going to use your hands to fight me like a muggle, were you?"

"Let's go," Scorpius whispers behind him, still pulling him away. He's struggling more with himself than with Scorpius, because he wants to knock the grin off of Craig's face, but he knows it's only going to make it worse.

The others laugh. "Good thing your girlfriend saved you out of this one."

It's too late to go for physical assault by then, as Scorpius has dragged him half out of the common room already. As a last resort, he uses a couple of colourful swears that make quite a few students gasp. Praise his mom for involuntarily teaching him those.

Once they are out, Scorpius lets him go and shakes his head. "You're so easily offended, even by things that aren't about you."

"Of course I'm offended when they're talking shit about either of us," Albus crosses his arms before his chest. Don't friends do that? Stand up for each other? "You should be more offended by them. You're making me do all the work."

Scorpius smiles faintly, but doesn't answer. Silence is Scorpius' modus operandi, and he is surprisingly good at it. He just acts like it's not happening at all, as if he isn't present at all. Shoulders straight, chin raised, staring off in the distance. As of lately, that's ticks Albus off worse than the gossips. Why is Scorpius so indifferent?

"Let's go to the hut," Albus finally sighs.

At the edge of the Forbidden Forest stands a desolate hut, too small to be a house but too big to be a regular shed. It's been vacated for a while, to which the cobwebs, dust and creaky door testify. It's not uncomfortable though, as there is an armchair big enough for the both of them. Even more of a benefit is that no one disturbs them there.

"Albus?" He perks up at the sound of his name. Scorpius licks his lips, and they sit down in the gigantic seat. "What did you say to the hat?"

Albus blinks a few times in surprise. The Sorting Hat? Why is Scorpius thinking about that now? "What do you mean?"

"I thought you didn't want to be in Slytherin. I thought you would have asked to be in Gryffindor. But, considering what you told me yesterday, it must've been different for you."

Is that what Scorpius has been thinking about? Why he was so silent today? Albus doesn't really understand why he would still think about that. Scorpius himself had said it didn't matter anymore. Albus shrugs. "I asked the hat to be in Slytherin."

Scorpius' mouth opens to say something, but no words come out. For a long moment, he just stares at Albus. "But why?"

 _Because of you_ , is the first thought that runs through Albus' head. It isn't entirely true, but he did consider Slytherin in the first place because at least he would have Scorpius there. Sure, he would have had Rose in Gryffindor, but Rose wasn't quite like Scorpius. She barely even talked to him since they had arrived. Besides, the hat must have had more reasons to put him in Slytherin. After all, it only cares about your preferences when they're founded.

"Everyone expected me to be a Gryffindor," he cracks a small smile, throwing Scorpius' words back at him. "And they all believed that I would be just as proud and heroic and stupidly brave as my family." He explains. "I don't want that. I want to prove them I can be great in my own way."

Scorpius shakes his head slowly, but grins nonetheless. "Sometimes you really remind of a Gryffindor though."

They take out their homework, this time, in perfect tranquillity. Albus wants to give up on the history assignment already, as he tried starting on it three times so far, but never managed to write down more than his name. He supposes he can do his potions reading, which Scorpius probably just finished.

A few minutes pass when Scorpius break the studious silence. "Albus, look." He hands him his copy of Hogwarts: A History. From the sheer size, the yellowed pages, and the musty smell, Albus can tells it must be one of the original copies that has to be brought in annually for careful updating.

He immediately recognises the four figures that look up at him from the page. And yet, as soon as he draws the book nearer to take a good look at them, the familiarity is lost. On the pages, the four founders are but caricatures of themselves. Godric is a muscular and broad figure, wielding his sword in nothing but a pointless show of strength, like a god of nothing who is just proud to be a god. He is smiling in an overly confident way.

"He looks like an idiot," Albus comments, tapping the picture with his finger. The drawing jumps up exaggeratedly at the action and points its sword at it.

"She looks friendlier though." Scorpius' finger hovers over Rowena's figure. She merely glances up at it with a sleepy air, nothing like the cold observance he remembers. "But she was only wearing her diadem in the painting."

Albus can't tell whether she was as dossed out in foreign jewellery as she is in the book illustration, though he does remembered Salazar was. Speaking of whom, the man looks quite a lot older in the book than he did in the painting. He wears an expression as though he smells something nasty, and occasionally even rubs his hands together suspiciously. Albus rolls his eyes. Scorpius, too, huffs at the image. "He looked a lot more pleasant in the painting."

Pleasant, Albus thinks, is not exactly the word he would use. Salazar may appear better in the painting, but he still looks like the kind of guy you wouldn't want to bump into at night. Albus doesn't want to voice his disagreement though. Instead, he leans forward to look at the much older depicted Helga Hufflepuff. "She looks like a grandma here."

"This text is all about what a sweet woman she was too, rather than her accomplishments. You'd think she just smiled one fourth of Hogwarts to life."

They study the caricatures for a moment, before Albus turns to Scorpius. "Is there a section on all the headmasters and headmistresses?"

He doesn't have to say more than that, as Scorpius already knows which people from that section Albus wants to see. He opens the pages on which Albus and Severus stare up at Albus Severus. They are drawn as different as day and night. Dumbledore, clad in white and gold, looks either like a saint or god himself, although he doesn't do anything but eat candy. Snape, on the other hand, bears more resemblance to a grumpy vampire. He makes a displeased face and walks out of the page.

"Are those lemon drops?" Scorpius asks as he leans over the illustration. Dumbledore smiles at him and grabs yet another one of the yellow sweets out of nowhere. Whether they are lemon drops or any other candy is of the least importance to Albus, however.

Albus Severus never liked his name much. It is heavily burdened with two figures whom, from all he hears and reads about them, he does not particularly like. Looking at the saintly drawing of Dumbledore now, he fears that people have done to him what they did to Albus' dad; they made a saint out of him. Why he was named after Snape remains a complete mystery to him, as, completely opposite to Dumbledore, this man was blamed for a great deal of things that should have gotten him landed in Azkaban. His father is always vague when talking about either of them, which doesn't help Albus at all. Sure, they were both great and brave men who sacrificed themselves for the greater good, but there are plenty of people like that.

And one day Albus Severus wants to be great too. He realises, with no little bitterness, that he will never bring forth his own name, only theirs. And he will always be compared, not only to his father's greatness, but to theirs too. He will always be bound to two men he never knew.

* * *

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